


The Kings and the Flowered Pavilion

by jaydee09



Series: Two Kings [20]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Flowers, Jealousy, M/M, Oral Sex, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 20:26:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3147518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaydee09/pseuds/jaydee09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the jealous violence of my last episode, 'The Kings and the Consequences', Thorin comes up with a plan to help Thranduil cope with the green-eyed monster.  As usual, his plans rebound on him and the kings part once more.  Are flowers - or something else - the solution, LOL?</p>
<p>Read this story as a stand-alone or as part of an arc which starts with 'King of the Antlered Throne'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kings and the Flowered Pavilion

 

 

The Kings and the Flowered Pavilion

 

Pt I

 

‘The Best-Laid Plans of Mice and Men……’

 

Balin was walking up from the Treasury with an important ledger that he wanted Thorin to look at under his arm.  Lost in thought, he was just approaching his king’s apartment when Thranduil was practically thrown out through the door.  Thorin stood on the threshold glaring angrily at his lover and shouted:  “Well, if you expect me just to stand by and watch you ogle all those young dwarves from Ered Luin, then you’ve got another think coming!”

 

“But……but…” stuttered the elven king, standing wide-eyed in the corridor.

 

“No,” said Thorin, holding up a restraining hand and closing his eyes.  “Not a word!  It’s bound to be all lies, anyway.”

 

Thranduil stared at his lover one moment longer and then marched off down the corridor, shaking his head.  Balin stood hastily to one side as the elf swept past him with unseeing eyes.  “Not again!” he groaned inwardly.

 

“Ah, Balin!” called Thorin cheerfully from the doorstep.  “Come in!  Come in!  I’ve been expecting you.”  And with a smiling gesture, he ushered his startled counsellor into the room.

 

“What was all that about?” Blain asked as soon as he was inside.

 

Thorin gave a great guffaw that puzzled Balin even more: this swing from one mood to another was so extreme that it was worrying.

 

“Oh, that,” grinned the king.  “That was just a little game I’m playing with Thranduil  -  except that he doesn’t know about it.”

 

“A game?” asked Balin.  And he suddenly felt the need to sit down.  He was too old to keep up with Thorin these days.

 

Thorin pulled him up a chair, poured them both a glass of wine and then sat down opposite.  “Well, it’s like this, you see……How many times do you reckon that Thranduil has been jealous of me because of an imaginary lover and has then walked out on me?”

 

“Er, I’ve lost count,” said a bemused Balin.

 

“And how many times have I been jealous of Thranduil?”

 

“Um, have you ever been jealous?”

 

“Well, yes, once, in Mirkwood……sort of.  I wondered who would become his lover after I died and set about trying to track down the possibilities.”

 

“And so you became jealous of an affair that just might come to pass after your death?”  Balin was even more bemused.  “Wasn’t that a bit ridiculous?”

 

“Yes, downright silly, really,” was Thorin’s gruff reply.  “But, I finished up in a lot of deep water and it taught me a good lesson.”

 

“Where is this leading, Thorin?  I don’t understand where a game comes into things,” was the puzzled comment.

 

“Well,” laughed Thorin, warming to his task, “I’m doing this for Thranduil, you see.”

 

“You are?”

 

“Yes, because every time he gets jealous, Thranduil feels more and more inadequate.  And he felt dreadful after he punched and kicked me the last time.  He feels that there must be something wrong with him….either that or that he loves me more intensely than I love him.  And so, I’m playing this game.  See?”

 

Balin blinked at him but, finally, the light dawned.  “Ah, yes!  You’re pretending to be jealous too.  Then he will understand the desperation of your love for him – which will make him feel really good about himself – and he will also believe that his own jealous fits don’t make him abnormal in any way.”

 

“Got it!” cried Thorin, looking very pleased with his own cleverness.  And then his face became very serious.  “Because I do love him, you see…..it’s just that perhaps I’m not able to show it as well as I should.  Thranduil’s very poetic, you know, and I’m not.  He waxes all lyrical when he talks about his love for me…..it’s quite beautiful.  But he leaves me searching for an appropriately beautiful response.  And I can’t find one because I’m just a stupid dwarf.  Ask me to fire up the troops before leading them into battle and the words just somehow spring to my lips.  But, ask me to talk about love…..and, well….”  Thorin’s voice trailed off into a gloomy silence.

 

Balin patted him on the shoulder in a kindly fashion.  “There, there, laddie.  I’m sure there are other things he values you for, other than your silver tongue.”

 

Thorin grinned.  “There certainly are!” he said.  “But my tongue does happen to be one of them.”

 

“Too much information,” said Balin.

 

His king laughed and poured another drink.  “So, tell me about that argument you’ve just had,” said the elderly dwarf.

 

“Good, wasn’t it?” said Thorin gleefully.  “Even you thought I was having a real row with him.  It was something that occurred to me when I saw him talking agreeably earlier today to a group of new dwarves who have just arrived from Ered Luin.  Nice-looking bunch.  And I’m always nagging him to be more sociable when he’s here.  Anyway, I left him there with them and when he returned just now, I accused him of flirting with them.  And I questioned whether or not he still loved me and reminded him of that stupid threat he made about finding himself a new dwarven lover.”

 

“And did he believe you?” asked Balin curiously.

 

“Did he?” crowed Thorin.  “You should have seen my performance.  I raised my voice and stormed about the room whilst Thranduil stood there with his mouth open, not knowing what to say.  And then I threw him out!”

 

Balin looked worried.  “But aren’t you concerned that he might just pack his bags and disappear off to Mirkwood for good because you’ve hurt him so much?”

 

“No,” said Thorin confidently.  “He’ll do what I did when he walked out on me.  He’ll be down in the dining-room having a drink at the moment, crying on Brangwyn’s shoulder or something; and then he’ll come back and beg me to listen to reason.  And, after a bit more arguing, I’ll suddenly see how wrong I’ve been and apologise to him….That’ll make him feel really good.  And then we’ll have some truly spectacular make-up sex.”

 

“Well, I sincerely hope,” said Dwalin doubtfully, “that you’re right.  You’re walking a really fine line with him, it seems.  There’ve been enough rows and arguments between you two to last a life-time.”

 

“Of course I’m right,” said Thorin with an arrogant toss of his head.  And, for a moment, Balin thought that he looked just like Thranduil.

 

.o00o.

 

Pt II

 

‘…..Oft Gang Agley’

 

But Thranduil wasn’t down in the dining-hall and he wasn’t crying on Brangwyn’s shoulder.  He was stroking the neck of his beautiful horse down in the stables and wondering if he should mount it and go home.  He was shaking with indignation and anger.  How dare Thorin accuse him of something he patently hadn’t done!  How dare he throw him out of his apartment!  Was the dwarf _mad_?!  Well, if he expected him to go back and _beg_ ……!  Sorry, but begging just wasn’t his style.

 

He stroked his horse a bit more.  And running away with his tail between his legs wasn’t his style either.  The horse hair was soft and warm beneath his hand.  Feeling it, Thranduil grinned to himself.  But Thorin’s hair was softer…….and his bed was even warmer.

 

Well, if he wasn’t going to beg and he wasn’t going to run away….then what?  Thranduil patted his horse’s flanks and made his way to the dining hall.  Where were those young dwarves from Ered Luin, he wondered?  There they were, sitting in a rather lonely-looking group.  Thranduil moved towards them, all smiles and charm. 

 

.o00o.

 

When Thranduil didn’t return to the apartment, Thorin felt a smidgeon of concern.  Poor thing.  Perhaps he had pushed him too far and he had got drunk – just like he had that other time.  I’d better go and rescue him, thought Thorin.  And, if he’s drunk, I shall have to bring him back and tuck him into bed….and snuggle down with him.  Should be a nice surprise for him when he wakes up in the morning.  And Thorin went whistling off to the dining-hall.

 

It was late evening and the room was packed with dwarves who were just finishing off dinner and others who had come down for a good, sociable drink.  Thorin peered around the room, then caught the attention of one of the guards.  “Is the elven king present tonight he asked?”  And he was pointed towards a rather boisterous group in the corner. 

 

For the first time, Thorin felt slightly apprehensive.  As he approached the group, he began to make out a number of those likely lads who were newcomers from Ered Luin.  They really were a fine bunch of young dwarves, who, when he had met them earlier in the day, had seemed quite shy and unassuming.  They had been deeply grateful that Thranduil, their king’s partner, had taken a kindly interest in them and, if they hadn’t been part of Thorin’s plan at the time, Thorin himself would have made sure that they were comfortable in their new home.  But, he had left that all to Thranduil so that he could shout accusations at him later.  Now his lover seemed to have found his way back to this attractive group.

 

As he neared their table, Thorin paused in shock.  The whole lot, including Thranduil, appeared to be inebriated.  The table was covered in empty bottles and glasses and they were playing silly drinking games.  The lads were a pretty group, too young yet to have much in the way of beards and, in the half-light, they reminded him of young Kili and could almost have passed as elves if they had been taller.  Thranduil was sprawled on a bench, his arm wrapped around one of them, whilst the lad on the other side was balancing a glass of spirits on his chin. 

 

Everyone, including Thranduil, was roaring with laughter.  And the elven king’s look of disarray was jaw-dropping to Thorin who had never seen him less than immaculate.  His silver blond hair was slightly tangled: tangled?  Thorin hadn’t appreciated that this was even possible.  Even after a wild night in bed with each other, his hair was never _tangled,_ for goodness’ sake!  And his robe was hanging open to the waist, revealing his pale, smooth chest.  Thorin immediately wanted to march up to him and do up all the buttons.  But, the lad balancing the glass on his chin finally lost control and the contents were spilled all over the elven king.  Cue more raucous laughter. 

 

Thranduil looked up then and stared Thorin straight in the face.  His eyes were mocking and the young dwarf wedged under his arm giggled and, bending over, slowly licked and sucked all the alcohol from Thranduil’s breast whilst the elf caressed his hair.  Thorin saw red and a sexual jealousy, the like of which he had never experienced before, ran through him on a hot tide.

 

And, yes, Thorin wanted to throw the young dwarf to the floor and hit that beautiful, taunting face that was smirking so arrogantly at him very, very hard.  But he did neither of these things.  Instead, with admirable restraint, he thought, Thorin stood at the end of the table and, in his powerful, dark voice, bellowed “Thranduil!”

 

A sudden silence descended on the entire room and the young lad licking the last of the alcohol from Thranduil’s navel, looked up in horror and, swiftly disengaging himself, scuttled from the bench and disappeared.  Thorin strode forward and the rest of the table scattered to left and right.  Their king seized the elf in an ignominious and powerful grip about his upper arm, impossible to break, and then half dragged him from the hall.  After they had gone, the other dwarves rolled their eyes and whistled through their teeth and then, shaking their heads in amusement, went back to their drinking.

 

“Are you going to let me go?” demanded Thranduil as Thorin hauled him through the corridors. 

 

“No,” growled Thorin.

 

“That was the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me,” he panted as they struggled towards Thorin’s apartment.

 

“Really?  You should get out more often, then,” snarled the dwarf.  And he opened his door and pushed Thranduil through.

 

“That was a show of disgusting, drunken behaviour, not befitting a king,” said Thorin, turning on the elf.

 

“I’m not drunk,” snapped Thranduil, pulling himself up to his full, elven height.  “I was just enjoying myself with those lads.”

 

“Well, you stink enough to be drunk,” said Thorin nastily and he began to unbutton the elf’s alcohol soaked clothing.  Thranduil let the silken robe fall about his feet and then,  giving Thorin a considering look, he lay back on the floor and coyly raised a booted foot to the dwarf for him to remove, first one, then the other.

 

Thranduil spread himself on the marble paving and looked up at Thorin through long, expectant eyelashes.  At least his bad behaviour had brought his lover running to him.  But the dwarf suddenly tugged him to his feet – and pushed him head first into the bathing pool.  And as he surfaced, coughing and spluttering, Thorin grabbed him by the hair and yanked him out again.

 

“That’s better,” he said.  And then he bent down and snatched up one of the large white towels that was folded in readiness by the pool and threw it about Thranduil, trapping the elf to him in its fluffy embrace.

 

“Now,” he said huskily into the elf’s throat, grinding his hips aggressively against Thranduil’s own, “I can no longer smell that dwarf who was kissing and licking you so amorously.  And I shall set my own mark upon you so that you will know that you are mine.”  And he buried his face in the elf’s long white neck and sucked and bit the flesh until with a yelp, Thranduil finally managed to break free.

 

Thorin stood there, panting and glowering.  “You belong to me,” he snarled, “and if I catch you again in another’s arms, then you will pay.”  And he looked at the elven king’s bitten neck and felt a brutal pleasure.

 

Then Thranduil gave him such a look of cold disdain that it took his breath away.  The elf marched to a cupboard and donned some fresh clothing.  And then he put his boots back on and wrapped a towelled turban about his wet hair.

 

“Don’t follow me,” he said.  “I want no truck with ill-mannered animals.”  And then he banged out of the room.

 

Thorin sank onto the bed.  What on earth had come over him?  Of course he would go after Thranduil: he always did.

 

.o00o.

 

Pt III

 

‘Make Me a Willow Cabin at Your Gate’

 

It was a long and damp ride home and Thranduil had many miles in which to think.  By the time he reached his palace in Mirkwood, he had decided that enough was enough and it was incumbent upon him to make a stand, however powerful his attraction to the dwarf might be.  They would be better off apart: surely there would be less misery than if they stayed together?  He had to be strong, he thought, delicately touching the painful mark on his white throat.  He belonged to no-one.

 

He slept badly and when he rose with the sun and looked out from his balcony to the front gate, he saw that the dawn had also brought with it Thorin Oakenshield.  His heart clenched and, when the guard came, he turned a cold face towards him and said: “You are to deny him admittance.”

 

He watched from a hidden vantage point as the guard told Thorin of the elven king’s decision, but the dwarf only went a short distance down the road and then tied his horse to a tree.  Thranduil watched in fascination to see what he would do next.

 

.o00o.

 

Before leaving Erebor, Thorin had called Balin to him.  He was packing a large bag, full of weapons, tools and provisions.  “I may be gone a long time,” he said, “and so I am leaving you and Young Thorin in charge.”  He also instructed Balin to find the young dwarves from Ered Luin.  “Reassure them that their king finds no fault in them and that they are welcome here.”

 

Then he hoisted his pack onto his shoulder.  “You were right, Balin, old friend.  I crossed over that fine line and I may have lost him.  But,” he added with a half-smile, “we Durins do not give up the fight easily.”

 

.o00o.

 

Thranduil watched Thorin all day and wondered what he was up to.  After tethering his horse, he made his way to a stand of young willow saplings by the roadside.  They grew close together and, removing an axe from his pack, the dwarf cut down a few so that the rest remained in a small circle.  These he bent downwards and tied together so that they formed a domed bower.  After that, he wedged damp moss between the branches.

 

Then, for a while, Thorin disappeared into the surrounding forest and, when he came back, his arms were full of wild flowers, still with their roots; and these he planted in the moss.  Afterwards, he stood back to admire his creation; then he withdrew some bread and cheese from his pack and sat down within his bower to dine.

 

Thranduil blinked in amazement: Thorin had created a most beautiful pavilion, of the type that an elf might build and not a dwarf.  Every elf from Mirkwood who passed up and down the road in the next few hours, stopped to admire it and exchange a word or two with its builder.  Thranduil wondered how long he intended to stay there.

 

Thorin sat there quietly all day – and he was still there the next morning, casting occasional glances up towards the elven king’s apartment.  Thranduil began to feel a bit agitated: it was impossible for him to carry on normally with his life with Thorin out there, staring up at him.  He wished the dwarf would just go back to his Mountain and let him get on with his misery.

 

Thorin did disappear for an hour or so that day and when he came back, he was carrying a couple of rabbits which he cooked over a fire.  Thranduil rolled his eyes.  It was like having a vagrant on one’s doorstep.  But, the woods were full of game and the river was stocked with fish.  He could see Thorin holding out for a long time.

 

In fact, Thranduil and his courtiers hunted for deer two or three times a week and this put the elven king in a bit of a quandary because, if he went out hunting, he would have to ride right past Thorin and his bower.  He wondered if the dwarf would accost him.  But, when he finally decided that he _would_ ride out, in spite of such embarrassments, Thorin just stood there quietly by the roadside as he trotted past, looking yearningly after him.  The chattering courtiers fell silent as they saw Thorin.  Most of them knew the dwarf quite well by now and, although they didn’t exactly approve of the marriage that had taken place between these two kings, they had, over time, found much to admire about the dwarf and some cast him sympathetic glances. 

 

And Legolas stopped to speak with him:  “My father’s heart has turned to stone,” he sighed.  “But, just let me know if there is anything you need.”

 

This sympathy irritated Thranduil and hardened him further.  From his balcony where he now spent so much of his time, he saw over the next few weeks that some of the kindly ladies of his court would occasionally take down freshly baked cakes and delicacies to the dwarf.  And once, a lady known for her tender heart, came to him with tears in her eyes and begged her king to admit Thorin to his presence.  Thranduil just snapped at her and sent her brusquely away.

 

He must get bored, sitting out there all day long with nothing much to do, he thought.  Then, in the third week, he saw Thorin draw out a writing box and he wondered if he were sending instructions back to Erebor.  The dwarf sat there for hours, sucking his quill and staring into space, jotting down a word or two and then pausing again.  Whatever the document was, thought the elf, he was certainly expending a lot of effort on it.

 

Then, towards the end of the day, he saw Thorin finally roll up the parchment and, tying it with a ribbon, hand it over to one of the guards at the gate.   “Hah!” thought the king.  “Doubtless a pleading letter from him!”  But the guard gave Thorin a kindly and reassuring nod and, taking the roll, disappeared into the fortress.  Thranduil stoked up the fire and got ready to toss the document into the flames.

 

But, when he received the parchment roll, he saw that Thorin had thrust little forget-me-nots under the ribbon and his curiosity overcame him.  As soon as the guard had left the room, he quickly untied the ribbon and scanned the page.  His jaw dropped open: it was not a pleading letter but a poem – an ode to his beauty.

 

_He walks in beauty, like the night_  
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;  
And all that's best of dark and bright  
Meet in his aspect and his eyes……

 

There was a lot more but Thranduil angrily screwed it up and tossed it into the fire.  And then he immediately regretted it.  The poem could have been penned by one of his finest court poets and if he hadn’t sat and watched Thorin labour on it all day, he would have believed that he had copied it.  And now, it was destroyed.  He gazed at the ashes in the grate.  Best place for it, he muttered to himself.

 

That night, there was a bad storm.  The bower was only designed to keep out light showers, not the torrents that now soaked the earth.  Eventually, the downpour stopped, the clouds dispersed and a bright moon revealed itself.  Thranduil hurried to the balcony.  The bower had been destroyed.  The flowers and the moss had been battered to the ground and Thorin sat huddled in his cloak, absolutely sodden.  Perhaps now he would go home, the elf thought.

 

However, at first light, Thorin immediately set to, rebuilding his bower.  But he looked bedraggled and damp and, by the evening, he had developed a bit of a cough.  And, although he managed to get a fire going by nightfall, it was difficult because his pile of logs was as wet as he was.  Hadn’t he thought to bring any spare clothes with him, muttered Thranduil to himself with irritation?  Obviously not.  And, after a few turns about the room, he finally went to the cupboard and hauled out some of the garments that Thorin always left behind in between stays.

 

Thorin glanced up from the fire and saw his elven king standing there with a pile of clothes, looking ethereally beautiful in the moonlight.  “Put these on!” snapped Thranduil, “before you catch your death of cold!”

 

With a grateful nod, Thorin stripped off his damp garments.  Thranduil should have gone there and then but he was held in fascinated thrall as Thorin revealed his beautiful body, bit by bit.  And, as he covered it up again with dry clothing – the great chest, the powerful thighs, the bulging biceps, the erotically dangling genitals – Thranduil knew he should have left long since.  His own cock was so hard and swollen that he was afraid that he would spill his seed on the grass if he didn’t go now – this minute.  And yet, still he lingered.

 

“How can I thank you?” asked Thorin quietly.   Thranduil didn’t answer but just stared, unable to move.  Thorin knelt slowly in front of him and undid his surcoat.  Then he released his hard and swollen member from his breeches and took it into his mouth, swallowing it in, right to its base.  As that warm wetness enclosed him, Thranduil couldn’t breathe.  He felt that he would explode any minute.  And when Thorin began to suck and lave him with his tongue, then his legs shook and he came with a loud groan.  He stood there panting and gasping for breath and then he clutched his clothes angrily about him and fled the flowery pavilion.

 

Thorin remained on his knees for a while, staring after him and slowly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

.o00o.

 

Pt IV

 

‘Come, Let Us Kiss and Part’

 

A distressed Thranduil paced around his bedroom for the rest of the night.  How had he let that happen?  And why wouldn’t Thorin just go home?  He couldn’t get that hot, wet mouth out of his mind, nor, on the other hand, could he forget those vicious arguments that they had shared.  He must turn his back on this relationship.

 

For two days, he refused to go out on his balcony to check on the dwarf’s whereabouts.  The temptation was enormous, but he was proud of the way that he held firm.  Finally, he allowed himself a peek.   Thorin was writing on a parchment once more.  Another poem, he wondered?  This time, he wouldn’t throw it in the fire but he would keep it as a reminder of a love that once was.  He waited impatiently all day for the poem to be delivered to him.  But, the evening came and went without any poem making an appearance.  And Thranduil went to bed with an overpowering sensation of disappointment.  Perhaps it had been a letter to Balin after all.

 

Late that night, Thorin approached the guard and handed over another parchment roll.  He was leading his horse.  “Don’t give this to the king until the dawn,” he said.

 

The guard, who had been very kind and helpful, grimaced.  “You’re not giving up on him, are you, sir?” he asked.  “I’m sure you’re close to a breakthrough.”  The whole court had been absorbed by the way that Thorin had been laying siege to their king and most were silently cheering him on.

 

“I’m afraid,” said Thorin sadly, “that I’ve given it my best shot and yet I seem to have made no headway.  But, I want to thank you for your help.”  And Thorin was, indeed, very touched by the reception he had received outside Thranduil’s gate.

 

.o00o.

 

Thorin  had nearly reached Erebor by the time that the guard took his parchment to Thranduil.  The elf had just got up and he settled back comfortably in a chair to read his love poem.  And, yes, it was a poem; and, yes, it was beautifully written.  But it was a poem of farewell, one of resignation and loss.  It calmly said goodbye and gave up on all that they had meant to each other.

 

_Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part._

_Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;_

_And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,_

_That thus so cleanly I myself can free._

_Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,_

_And when we meet at any time again,_

_Be it not seen in either of our brows_

_That we one jot of former love retain._

It was signed Thorin X – one last kiss as they parted.

 

Thranduil clutched the poem to him and wept as he realised that his love affair with Thorin was over.  And then he ran to the balcony.  The pavilion was empty and both Thorin and his horse were gone.  The king hurried downstairs to the bower: there was no sign that it had ever been inhabited except for a few discarded pieces of parchment on the floor.  Thranduil picked them up and found that they were rough attempts at the poem.  But, one was a slightly longer version.  And the elf read this very carefully, several times, and then he folded it up and put it in his breast pocket, against his heart.  An hour later, Thranduil too had set out for Erebor.

 

.o00o.

 

Thorin had arrived back at the Mountain, totally exhausted.  When Balin heard of his return, he hurried to his room to find him climbing into bed.  “I gave it a month,” he said, “but he wouldn’t even let me over the threshold.”  He looked gaunt and pale.  “I’ve been camping out,” he said tiredly, “and I’m not well.”

 

“But, did you try everything?” asked Balin, who couldn’t quite believe that Thorin had failed.

 

“Everything,” said Thorin with a half-smile.  “I even wrote him poems.”

 

“Poems!” exclaimed the old dwarf, with a laugh.  “No wonder you’ve come home without him.”

 

“They were good ones,” Thorin sighed.  “I didn’t realise I had it in me.  And, before you ask, I also tried a bit of sex when he came to visit me in my hut one night.  He ran away and I didn’t see him again.”

 

Knowing how infatuated Thranduil was with Thorin, this was something else that Balin found almost impossible to believe.  He had to admit that all seemed lost.

 

But he was concerned by Thorin’s lethargy and sent for Oin who examined him and then took Balin to one side.  “He’s got a bit of a bad chest,” he told him.  “But it’s more than that, I reckon.  He’s not only given up on Thranduil – it’s as if he’s given up on life as well.”  And when Balin peeked into the bedroom later, Thorin had turned his face to the wall.

 

Balin hurriedly called a meeting with Brangwyn, Young Thorin, Dwalin and Oin in his rooms.  When he had told them what had happened they began to panic.  “This sounds bad,” growled Dwalin.  But, before hysteria had a chance to set in, a guard arrived to say that Thranduil was at the gate.

 

“Thank Mahal!” they all gasped.  And Balin hurried downstairs to collect the elven king.

 

As they mounted the stairs to Thorin’s apartment, Thranduil showed Balin Thorin’s farewell poem.

 

The dwarf’s eyebrows raised in surprise.  “This really is very good,” he said.  “But it also sounds pretty final.”

 

“But, if I can just see him on his own, I think I might still stand a chance.”

 

“You fools,” sighed Balin.  “You stupid _fools_.”

 

“I know,” said the elven king.

 

.o00o.

 

Thranduil quietly entered Thorin’s bedroom and was shocked to see him so still, curled up with his face to the wall.  “Thorin,” he said.  But the dwarf didn’t respond.  All the way to Erebor, the elf had been reading and rereading the longer version of Thorin’s poem and, by now, he knew it off by heart.  Slowly, and in a clear calm voice, he began to recite the extra part of the poem, the ending that Thorin had been too disheartened to attach to the one he had sent Thranduil.  “Thorin,” he said again:

 

_Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath,_

_When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies;_

_When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,_

_And Innocence is closing up his eyes—_

_Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,_

_From death to life thou might’st him yet recover!_

He was listening, he knew it!  And, bending over him, he kissed him gently on the cheek.  Thorin rolled towards him and tears were in his eyes.  “Thranduil,” he whispered.  “You’ve come back to me.”

 

“I’ve never left you, my love,” said the elf hoarsely, choking on his own tears.  “Leaving you would be impossible.”   And then he slipped off his robes and, climbing into bed with Thorin, he held him tenderly in his arms, kissing and stroking him.

 

“It was a game I was playing,” murmured Thorin.  “It was meant to help you overcome your jealousy.”

 

“What?” said Thranduil, running a hand down his face.

 

“I pretended to be jealous so that you wouldn’t feel bad about your own moments of jealousy.  But it all went wrong.”  And he gently fingered the scar on Thranduil’s throat.

 

“No,” said the elf firmly.  “It _nearly_ went wrong.  And now we have pulled things out of the fire once more.”

 

“But, perhaps one day we shan’t,” said Thorin worriedly.

 

“Yes, we shall,” smiled Thranduil, “because I shall always carry your poem against my heart.”

 

“Poem?” said Thorin, suddenly alert.  “Surely you mean ‘poems’?”

 

“Er, no,” muttered the elven king.  “I threw the first one in the fire.”

 

“You what?” shouted Thorin, sitting up in bed.

 

“Well, what was I expected to do?  I didn’t want poems at that point.  I just wanted you to go home!”

 

“How dare you!” yelled Thorin.  “That poem was a work of art and now it’s gone forever!”

 

Balin, with his ear pressed tightly to the outer door of the apartment, was horrified as he heard the voices of the two kings rise louder and louder.  The others, bunched closely behind him in the corridor, asked him what was going on.

 

“They’re at it again,” he sighed.

 

“Well, that’s all right,” said Dwalin cheerfully.  “It’s back to normal then!  Time for us all to go downstairs for a drink.”  And, with that, they all plodded off to the dining hall, their task for the day effectively done.

 

.o00o.

 

**NB I would like to apologise to Lord Byron and Michael Drayton for pinching their poems!**

**Just to say that I am in the middle of yet another story, ‘The Kings Tell it Like it Was’, which I hope to post when it’s finished.  At the end of the chapter above, Thorin is ill.  He gets worse and Thranduil and his friends put their heads together to improve life for him.  The lovers set off for a bit of R &R and are lured into discussing their past love lives with each other – not necessarily a good idea, LOL.**

**If you enjoy my Thorinduil stories, then let me know: your interest is what keeps me going.**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  


 

 

 

 


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